


Through Thoughts, Rides Death

by TheFantabulousPandemonium



Series: Welcome to the Masquerade [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Dimensions, Gen, Intimacy, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFantabulousPandemonium/pseuds/TheFantabulousPandemonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year was 1903. The night was young, the moon full, and the trenches soaked in gore. A tall, cloaked figure meandered through the barbed wire and bloodied ground, face obscured and their posture proud. The soldiers who saw them did not make it through the next few hours of silence.</p><p>Or, how the Being once known as Harry James Potter spends time in one Dimension in particular. </p><p>He didn't plan on spending it catching up with the one person who'd always intrigued him, but Fate - Destiny, Karma, whatever It wanted to be called - had a funny way of playing them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First

The year was 1903. The night was young, the moon full, and the trenches soaked in gore. A tall, cloaked figure meandered through the barbed wire and bloodied ground, face obscured and their posture proud. The soldiers who saw them did not make it through the next few hours of silence.

-

Many have tried to escape Death. All have failed.

But Harry did not run, did not escape, and did not care. The stone in his hand and the wand at his hip and the cloak round his shoulders did not mean anything to anyone but he and the Being before him, not here and not now. The dead would remain dead, and those meant to die would die. There were no exchanges, no bargaining, and no exceptions.

Except Harry.

The Boy Who Lived, who loved, who hated the man he was always destined to face as an equal. But there were no equals when Death played favorites.

He had met Death in several guises throughout his life. In the Basilisk, in a dementor's gaze, in the murky depths of Hogwart's Lake and Dragon fire, in scars on his hands, and in his mentor's kind, wise gaze. And even after, Death had always found him, weary and wary and unsettled in the soul.

Harry would have called it Fate, but he knew better.

-

A pleasant thought, to be the Master of Death itself. Himself. Whatever the Being in front of him liked to call itself. They had a blithe, polite smile on too thin lips and a hungry gleam in their poisonously green eyes. Nicholas Flamel leant forward on the edge of his chair, hands gripping the armrests.

The Being's grin grew, and he folded his own hands on his lap after adjusting his cloak. They had much to talk about.

-

Wool's Orphanage was quiet, unsettlingly so for the time of day. Harry waited patiently with his hands clasped together in from of him and his cloak billowing about his shoulders from the wind. He knew, of course, what was going inside the walls. Everyone did. Well, everyone who mattered.

And the child being interrogated by Dumbledore definitely mattered.

-

The man who'd come in was rather short, wearing a sleek black cloak cut in a style that he'd never seen before. Tom slowly set aside the rag he'd been using to clean the counters, emotions hidden behind a polite - if rather blank - smile. He watched the wizard flit among the wares for several minutes, lightly touching a hand of glory for a moment, the one in the window that had been there for ages, before moving towards the next item that caught their attention. Only after inspecting everything did they come to the counter, where he'd been waiting rather impatiently. It was fairly obvious they weren't the usual sort of customer Borgin & Burke's received, after Tom had asked if they were looking for something in particular.

The response had been a pleasant-sounding ' _yes_ ' and the stranger raised his hands to remove the hood of their cloak. Tom had almost went for his wand until he realized what they were doing, calming himself with a small smile. Beneath the crisp black fabric, the wizard's face was rather young, with a mess of unruly black hair and bright green eyes that sparked in amusement. They wore glasses, in an unpopular style, a small grin, and seemed to be looking straight through him. Tom held back a suspicious glare.

"I'm looking for a mister Riddle?" 

"May I know who's asking?" The surprise must have been visible on his face, as the stranger's grin widened and his eyes never left Tom's face.

"A friend of a friend." A small silence stretched through the store, before the wizard inclined his head and swept out, a flash of the silvery grey lining of his cloak the last Tom saw of him.

-

Tom Marvolo Riddle. A rather plain name for the rather extraordinary student. Harry smiled to himself and waved a hand to stir his coffee, watching people wander through the Leaky Cauldron over the pages of his book.

-

The stranger that had swept through Abraxas' party like he belonged there introduced himself as Peverell. He'd greeted the Lord Malfoy with an odd quirk of his lips and a sweeping grace that felt more natural than affected. Tom had, of course, recognized the name. As did those present to hear it.  Peverell's smile was calm and polite, and his eyes skipped over the rest of their faces until they came to rest precisely on him.

Tom, on the other hand, introduced himself as Slytherin.

Knowledge was power, thrumming through their viens and hidden behind sharp, watchful smiles. Abraxas didn't know what to make of the two. Harry was both Harry and not, and Tom was neither Tom nor himself. Knowledge was power and they were surely the most powerful wizards in the manor. That much was certain.

There was no instant spark between them. They were not soulmates, not lovers, and definitely not friends. For now, they were Peverell and Slytherin, circling each other in curiosity and slight distaste.

-

Peverells. Peverells and Potters and Gaunts and Malfoys. Everything was connected, threads running from the centre of an immense web of deceit and pleasantries. And just above it, watching everything pass with tired, weary patience, laid Harry.


	2. The Third

It was a dangerous game they played. Too much information and they risked the whole thing coming down on their heads. Too little and, well, there was no such thing as too little information when their mere persons were so interesting.

-

In several timelines, he was the one to greet himself at King's Cross during the final battle. Harry had always looked surprised - it was probably like staring into a cracked mirror as Peverell hadn't aged a day since Death had chosen him. Each time was a different experience, each version of himself different in some way or form. One more paranoid, having fought much longer than Dumbledore had allowed. One more trusting, who'd been blinded by his mentor's machinations. One was not even him at all, instead a blonde child with deadly green eyes and a biting wit. Peverell enjoyed them perhaps more than he should have.

But not as much as Slytherin.

He knew exactly who Slytherin was. He did read the papers, after all, and he wasn't as stupid as many seemed to think he was. No, Peverell was perfectly aware of whose feet he held in his lap, resting his book atop them like he didn't have a care in the world.

But Slytherin didn't know. Couldn't know. Would perhaps never know. And it drove the younger wizard delightfully mad.

-

Peverell brushed his hand, briefly, the motion small and unnoticed by the majority of people around them. Another gala, another ball, another headache after the fact. Slytherin could already hear the  _Prophet_ in the back of his mind, raving on about their supposed closeness and the question of the other wizard's identity. He didn't lean closer, nor did Peverell's grin widen.

-

Harry Potter was just a name. A name, a legacy, and something he could never bring himself to be again. Peverell is easier, more familiar and comforting than the names his parents had given him centuries ago.

He flitted between timelines and dimensions without much care, stopping every once in a while to pay particular attention to certain souls. Which, he suspected, was an excuse for how often he stayed in this one.

Slytherin's home was more comfortable than the Burrow, than Grimmauld, than Privet Drive had ever been. Small things made it even more so. The robes, traveling and otherwise, were in his size despite the younger wizard being much taller than him. The lingering contact as well, barely touching yet neither wanting to let go. Peverell almost didn't want to leave.

-

Peverell talked of Death, of brothers and gifts and endless searching. Fairy-tales, he said with his small, ever-present grin, for children and those who just never grew up. Slytherin spoke of souls, of childish cruelty and vast, swallowing oceans that consumed entire beings in seconds. Neither said outright what they meant. 

Neither thought they had to.

-

The pair were alone for what felt the first time in months. Peverell sank into the armchair he'd claimed with a sigh, spreading himself out against the fading fabric and letting his head loll back. Slytherin allowed himself a seat nearby, kicking his feet up into the other's lap. They said nothing, for once, allowing the comfortable silence to keep.

His companion has been focused, perhaps too much, on a project. He couldn't bring himself to call the other on it, however, since he was the same. They didn't discuss them to each other or even mention them in a public place, but he had the deepest suspicion that Peverell already knew. 

Peverell knew far too much, the older wizard quiet and mysterious and subtly giving him hints he couldn't understand. It frustrated him in a way that made his companion laugh aloud.

-

He wondered, briefly, what Harry would have done. Harry, who was still attached to people and had many more emotions than the calm, bland persona he'd slipped on. Peverell still feared a snake of a man, but only because habits were hard to break.

Slytherin doesn't know what creature the stray boggart became, only that Peverell didn't scream and destroyed it with a flick of his wand and a grim look on his face. The wand wasn't anything pretty nor did the younger wizard recognize it, the dark, gnarled piece of wood a complete mystery.


	3. The Last

That night Slytherin put their wand hands together, fingertip to fingertip with a curious expression on his face just visible in the dim light. Peverell had to stop himself from connecting them more.

"Where did you get it?" He asked quietly. His companion knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Where everyone else gets their wands." Their lips quirked up in similar grins and the older wizard leaned up.

"We should get ours checked, just in case." Peverell laughed then, short and quick and breathless. Slytherin found himself chuckling along.

"Perhaps."

-

 Tom hadn't been Tom in what felt like ages, not with Peverell around. Even his underlings have started calling him Slytherin, if hesitantly. It was more amusing than anything to the both of them. The older wizard's hand trailed along his and their shoulders are pressed together. His legs were crossed over the other's and they each had a book open, Peverell's a disgustingly simple children's book. Though, he was more reading over Tom's shoulder with his chin digging into the crook of his neck.

It wasn't as uncomfortable as usual.

-

The longest he had ever heard Peverell speak had been when the older wizard read to him from the tales of Beedle the Bard, voice tired and lilting and so delicately soft it made Slytherin want to crush his throat. But he stayed still, stayed bathed in candlelight and moonlight until the story faded and Peverell's face was unreadable, staring down at the ending. The expression made him far more uncomfortable than he'd thought. Slytherin moved to close the book, fingers lingering on the cover as he met the other's curse-green eyes.

"Come to bed." He said firmly, not waiting for Peverell to move before blowing out the candles. They both knew what he meant and his companion didn't waste time, rising and setting the book aside to grip Slytherin's wrist. 

The touch is far gentler than he probably meant. but the younger wizard guided them both to the barely big enough cot shoved against the far wall and let his cloak fall from his shoulders onto the floor. Peverell did the same, the silvery inside lining catching the light on the way down. Then, it was quiet.

Peverell sighed then, throwing his arm over Slytherin and burying his nose in the back of his neck. Tom didn't know what to make of the mood but he shifted, wandlessly bringing the blanket up over their shoulders. He felt the smile against his skin moments later.

-

"We could easily be mistaken for brothers." Slytherin mused one night, after the candles had burnt themselves out and it was just them sitting in the dark. His fingers brushed easily through the elder wizard's hair. Peverell didn't bother opening his eyes, reaching up to pull the hand into his grasp.

"We could." He agreed, sliding his own fingers between the younger's and running his thumb along the inside of his palm. Their words came softly in the dark, as if afraid someone would overhear them. Not that it was likely. Aside from this room, the manor was unoccupied.

"Would you want to?" The question dripped in curiosity and a vague, vicious protectiveness that only Slytherin seemed to be capable of. Peverell laughed.

"Perhaps."

-

Peverell's scars were more than he could imagine. They spoke of war, of punishment, of friends and betrayal. At least, they spoke more than Peverell himself did about them. The pale, faded scar underneath his bangs that the elder wizard let him trace, with his head on Slytherin's lap and their fingers intertwined. And words, just as pale, were etched into the back of his left hand that made him itch to ask questions the other wouldn't answer.

-

 "Gaunt." Peverell said one day, staring at him from across the room. Slytherin nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to fix his companion with a hard look. The elder wizard rose from his sprawl in an armchair and he  _knew, he had to know_. But then Peverell spoke once more, drawing him out of the dazed panic and brushing his fingers across his shoulder.

"Too thin. Are you eating enough?"

"Of course." And, just like that, he was more relieved than ever, though the glint in Peverell's eyes said otherwise. Slytherin ignored it for now, catching the wandering hand for a moment before letting go.

That night, Peverell visited King's Cross. And laughed harder than he could remember.

-

It took a while to notice, Peverell's comings and goings both frequent and not, but his companion didn't age. In fact, Slytherin would almost say the wizard appeared the same as the day he'd walked into Borgin & Burke's little shop.

"Peverell." His voice was quiet and breathless and they were tangled in sheets and sunlight, too pale skin against darker. His companion hummed a questioning response, sharp chin digging into his shoulder. Slytherin pushed himself up, tracing fingers along the back of the other's hand.

"Who are you. Really." Peverell smiled then, slowly, like he always did. Tom couldn't hide the flicker of annoyance across his face.

"You'll find out eventually. In another time, perhaps." The words only served to both confuse and infuriate him and they both knew it. Peverell brought whitened knuckles to his lips in a silent apology.

-

" _Slytherin_." Came the high, piercing voice through the howls of battle. Tom couldn't think, couldn't breathe properly for the hole in his chest and the blood in his lungs, but he knew that voice and that name. It echoed again, closer, and suddenly there were arms around him and he's wrapped in the silvery lining of Peverell's favorite traveling cloak.

He tried to mumble something, but the words came out slurred and half-silent. He companion didn't seem to notice, hushing him with a mere word. There were hands in his hair and hands on his arms and Peverell was pressed up against his side like he'd never truly left.

"Let's get you home, old friend. I've been waiting for you." Tom laughed, long and low among the gore, fingers tight in the other's cloak.

"Yes," he breathed, and every sound seemed to die around him into a blanket of silence, "let's." He knew Peverell's name, now, in the swirling black cloak and the ring on his finger and the wand he knew was buried beneath his right sleeve.

Death, called Peverell and once called Harry James Potter, smiled.

-

In one universe, Lord Voldemort stared at a small child, both impassively watching the other in the same predatory way. Their eyes were curse-green and half familiar, and the boy cooed at him after a few more moments of silence.

In another, he was already dead.


End file.
